


An Awakening

by Zhie



Series: Seamstress Remix [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father and son bond over a philosophical lesson about the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Awakening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zopyrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zopyrus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Seamstress](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/48023) by Zopyrus. 



> This was a delightful project to work on. All of the stories I had to choose from were lovely and it was a hard decision to narrow it to three to dissect, let alone one to actually use. Thank you for letting me play in your sandbox, Zopyrus.
> 
> The challenge being, to remix it in a way I'd write it, 90% of my fics are Bunniverse, and, so, this is, too.

“I thought this morning that I would steal away the one in the middle.” Fëanáro was standing in the doorway of a large room that served as both nursery and study for his children, arms crossed over his chest. It sounded like a request, but there was no doubt it was a command. The governess was on one end of the room, tending to Tyelkormo’s desire to play some sort of self-invented hiding game, while Maitimo and Macalaurë practiced translating passages from Sarati to Tengwar. Their tutor hovered between their desks, ready to assist. Eressë now nodded and patted Macalaurë’s shoulder to dismiss him from the lesson, and Maitimo groaned softly at the thought of spending the afternoon without his brother to banter with.

Macalaurë put away his supplies before he followed his father into the hallway. They did not travel down, as he expected, but up, beyond the attic, into a sort of crawlspace he knew of but never ventured into. Here there were windows to let in the light of the trees, and wooden chests with locks on them. Fëanáro slid a key into one of them, and then paused. “Memory is a fickle thing. We pride ourselves that we forget nothing, but there is true recollection, and there are perceived memories. Ever in the world has there been chaos, and ever will there be chaos in our minds.” Fëanáro turned the key in the lock. “My mother knew better than to trust thoughts alone. She was a mistress not only of lore, but of history as well.”

They were hunched over the chest in the small space as Fëanáro brought out a roll of fabric. He set it upon the chest once closed again, and it unfurled like a scroll. “Tell me what you see,” he said.

“Cuiviénen,” answered Macalaurë immediately, a moment later certain that there was some greater riddle to be understood.

“Go on,” Fëanáro coaxed. “Describe it to me. Not from memory; you have no memories of Cuiviénen, just as I have no memories of it. Describe it from what you see here, as if this is your first encounter with the tale.”

Already, a song was forming in Macalaurë’s mind from seeing all the tiny people embroidered onto the cloth. He pushed it aside and pointed to those in the foreground. “I see three Elves waking, and three more beside them in slumber.” He identified each of them, from Imin to Enelyë. 

“How many others are with them?” prodded Fëanáro.

“Uh...” Macalaurë began by tapping the first four in the background, then paused, did a little math in his head, and answered, “One hundred and thirty-eight.”

“Good guess,” answered Fëanáro with an approving smirk. “Now... what about here?” He reverently shifted the fabric so that they could observe the next panel. 

At first, it appeared to be a copy. Every flower and bird was placed exactly as they had been in the first. Here, though, there were differences. “The scene is the same, but Imin and Enel are asleep again, and now Tatië is waking with her husband. There are others waking up now as well.”

“You might think this is one story, a continuation from panel to panel. However, it is not,” Fëanáro informed his son. “It is a completely different version of the same event. Look upon the next.” The tapestry was shifted again, and the scene was the same once more, but the people again had changed. Gone were the organized pairs, replaced with some little clusters and groups, while others slept alone. The six key people of the story were all asleep. There was a sole figure that did not slumber with the others. Only she was awake, and she was alone.

Curious to see what was next, Macalaurë took a turn at moving the tapestry, and Fëanáro sat back and watched as his son studied panel after panel and made his observations. “This one only has twelve Elves. All of them are awake, but I do not see Imin or Tata or any of them among this group. This next one has too many to count. There must be thousands of Elves here – oh, but I think that might be Enel and his wife at the center. And here the Elves are... well, I am not quite sure where they are,” admitted Macalaurë.

“That is a desert. Consider it the opposite of a forest. Instead of dirt, there is sand. But it is not like the sand of the shores. In this sand, nothing grows. There is no water, either, not for vast spans, and it can get very hot there. Some of our people passed through desert to reach Valinórë; Grandfather can tell you all about the perils of those lands. Middle-earth was a dangerous place,” he added. “Many perished, long before the great migration. Not everyone headed the call, or survived the summons when the journey began.”

Macalaurë nodded; these were tales he knew well. Only hours before, Tyelkormo and the governess were reciting the poem The Lost Telerin King. “There are so many versions here,” noted Macalaurë. “Which one is the real one?”

“They are all real. It depends on who you ask. Míriel Þerindë was not satisfied with the simple counting tale she was told as a child. She wanted to know more about our history – needed to know. Her travels took her all over Valinórë. She spoke to many people, and the stories were not all the same. People forgot, though they would not admit so, or they lied, intentionally or otherwise. She had hoped to discover the truth, but she learned that there were many truths, or at least, that there was no way to discover which was the purest truth. Everyone had such convictions that they were the one who remembered it correctly, and so, she recorded them all, adding to the tale as she learned of other versions.”

“Why not ask the Valar?” The answer seemed simple enough to Macalaurë.

Fëanáro laughed, but it was not a sound of delight. “The Valar. Everyone’s answer to everything becomes ‘the Valar’. The Valar were not there, no more than you or I were. How would they know what went on?”

“What of the Song?” pressed Macalaurë.

“The Song. Think of any song, the songs you sing and play, that you offer so beautifully to others. Can you recall how many times you have sung each one? Do you remember which notes you missed when you first practiced them? Can you ever sing them exactly the same way twice? When you sing a lament, can you truly understand the depths of despair of the one who sang it first, or the surpassing joys of those who created the ballads you repeat?”

It seemed that this was the real lesson, the true test, and Macalaurë shook his head and knew from his father’s firm yet proud smile that he had passed. “The Valar cannot tell us our history, for it is not theirs to tell, any more than their history is ours.” Fëanáro unrolled the tapestry to the end, where space remained for more. The needle, ancient yet untarnished, was still haphazardly stuck within the cloth of an incomplete scene. “Apparently, my mother rarely finished her works. Some will say it is a failing; I think it only speaks of her great ambitions. For her to finish would declare an end, and the truth is something we should always be searching for.”

“It was because she could not speak to everyone who was there. Some stayed behind and others were gone,” recognized Macalaurë.

“Yes.” Fëanáro rolled the tapestry again and opened the chest. “She wanted people to understand, and she wanted them to think on their own. She did not want stories to be changed, or lost, or made simple. She wanted the truth told, and shared, even if she could never confirm them all.” He began to place it back, but Macalaurë reached for it.

“It should be on display,” he said. “If she wanted people to know—“

“No one cares anymore.” Fëanáro’s words were harsh, and he shoved the tapestry away and snapped the lid of the chest shut. “Finished art is preferred. Symmetry of design and symmetry of thought are what the people want. The counting tales of twelve times twelve to the perfect number, and everyone awake beside their eternal love. They want perfection and harmony, whether there is truth in it or not.”

Macalaurë stared as his father locked the chest. “I care,” he said softly. “Art should not be simple.”

“And neither is the truth.” Fëanáro gave Macalaurë an approving nod. “I am fortunate to have a son who understands that, and you are fortunate to understand that in your youth.”


End file.
